Poetic Manifesto of Mithea’s Wonderland: The Poetry of Being and Action

In the image, words are born,
and within them, silence takes shape.
I am the gaze that listens,
the voice that sees,
the hand that moves the air,
and the body that writes without ink.

This art does not speak with a single voice,
but with the murmur of many,
with the soul’s vibration extending
into every corner of being.
It is not only image,
nor only sound,
nor only action.
It is all of these, and more.
It is the space between the seen, the heard, the lived.

Visual poetry glides through every stroke,
through every glimmer of light,
through every shadow that turns into meaning.
It is a language that needs no explanation,
only to be felt.

Sound poetry whispers in the void,
it weaves into the air,
and every sound dissolves into the skin.
Silence has its voice,
and the word, its echo.
It is a boundless language,
resonating in the depths,
in what cannot be seen,
but can be felt.

Action poetry is the body that speaks,
the movement that writes its own story
in space and time.
It is a gesture without words,
yet heavy with meaning,
the dance of being,
the sigh of the world.

And so, with every step we take,
art becomes action.
It is not mere contemplation,
but the living of what is seen,
the feeling of what is heard,
the inhabiting of what moves.

—Mithea Dewdi 12.02.2025—

Each action is a poetry in itself,
each word a heartbeat of the world.

This art is a journey into the sublime
that dwells within the everyday,
an invitation to pause
and see the invisible,
to hear the unheard,
to move the body to the rhythm
only the soul can know.

It does not close itself within a form,
it expands,
flows between the hands,
slips between the words,
dissolves into sound,
rises through every action.
It is an art without limits,
for there are no limits to creation.

It blossoms like a seed,
sprouting from the earth of the soul.
It does not belong to time,
but to an eternal moment

where borders fade
and the self connects with its essence.

This art is not only lived,
it invites you to live it.
It is born in the instant,
merging with the whisper of the wind.
I do not ask you to understand it,
only to feel it,
to live it,
to surrender to its flow
and become part of the whole.

For this art does not belong to me,
it belongs to the world,
to all those willing
to open their eyes and be transformed.

This is the art of being,
of what is seen and heard,
of what moves and is felt.
It is the poetry of the body,
of the soul,

the poetry that dwells in the air,
unseen, yet experienced

And so, I invite you,

I invite you to this journey with no return,
to this endless creation,
where every gaze is a poem,
every sound a story,
and every gesture the heartbeat of the soul.
For poetry is everywhere—
you only need to open your eyes
to see it,
to feel it,
to live it.

In this vast journey,
something is being born,
not as a rupture,
but as an expansion,
a whisper turning into a cry,
a creation that, unhurried,

weaves a new canvas,
a unique language.

This is the art of transformation,
embracing the visible
and the invisible,
connecting and uniting.

And so, in this instant,
something begins to sprout:
a movement that cannot be named,
but can be felt in every breath,
in every gaze,
in every word,
in every gesture.

It is the poetry of being,
of the soul,
of the world.
And it is here,
in this moment,
in your heart,
in mine.

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